‘Hey.’
What?
‘You’re not as smart as people think you are, you know that?’
Yeah.
‘So don’t try.’
What else is there?
‘Lighten up some.’ (The Voice pretends he’s American
sometimes, but he isn’t really.) ‘Ever get your IQ tested?’
Yeah
‘When?’
Erm… some time in my thirties.
‘Who set the paper?’
MENSA
‘Right. Cosher.’
Suppose so.
‘What did you score?’
I’d prefer not to say.
‘Embarrassed, huh?’
Something like that.
‘Okay, Stormin' Norman, so what are you going to post instead, now we’ve
established you’re an under-achiever?’
Some music?
‘What music?’
I thought I’d post my
latest favourite from The Borg’s Tumblr.
‘Why?’
Because I like it...
‘And you like this Borg dame, right?’ (So coarse, these
pretend Americans.)
Well… yeah.
‘Good thinkin’. I’m off to hit the sack.’
(The prospect of being skinned alive by an archaeologist who
then buries your bones before digging them up again, exclaiming ‘Hey guys, look
what I found’ is a curiously surreal sort of nightmare.)
3 comments:
As one of my professors used to say, "In 100 years, we'll all be part of the archaeological record."
Except me. I'll still be here. No need to resort to murder; I can wait.
Thought you might like PC.
I did, I did. (Like PC, that is.)
A hundred years... If my suspicions are anywhere close to being correct, you'll probably be a bus driver in Bombay and I'll be a ballet dancer in Beijing.
Such fun! Enough drink for one night. Bed.
You know, Mad, your mind is acute and generally pragmatic, but your sense of humour is often oblique and therefore subtle. Being tired and a little soaked last night, I didn't get it. Sorry. Got you now.
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